


007 Fest Ficlet Collection

by timetospy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 007 Fest, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canadian Shack, Canon-Typical Violence, Epistolary, Fluff, Implied Torture, M/M, Mission Fic, Prompt Fill, Restraints, Retirement, Semi-Public Sex, Sort of Kind of, a couple are complete crack, a dog - Freeform, ruined equipment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 20,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7754446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/pseuds/timetospy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The following ficlets are what I created during 007 Fest 2016. They were based on a <a href="http://timetospy.tumblr.com/post/146749700865/prompt-list">prompt list</a> I created - one quote for every day.  The ficlets run the gamut from crack to angst to tooth-rotting fluff, so each one has a small content explanation in the notes. Fic rating is for only three or four of the 30 ficlets collected here. Most are T/M.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: fluff, Soft!James, hurt/comfort

“Here, let me see,” James says as he brushes aside a lock of Q’s hair to reveal a nasty gash along his hairline. Q is sitting on the ground, leaning against a rock in the middle of a meadow in the German Alps. James had thought this would be the perfect getaway, secluded, private, gorgeous. He’d forgotten that the only way to get there was a 6-kilometre hike through the foothills. Q had not been amused.

Q hisses as James’ fingers probe gently at the torn flesh, dabbing it with antibiotic ointment. There’s no way to put a plaster over it without attaching it to Q’s hair, so James leaves them in the first-aid kit Q thoughtfully put in his bag.

Q had been fascinated by a specimen of wildflower just off the trail, and when he’d gone to get a photo of it, he’d slipped on a patch of loose gravel, and his head came down hard on an exposed boulder. Bad luck all around.

“It’s nothing,” Q says.

“That’s my line, and you’re not allowed.”

“You’re usually trying to hide gunshot wounds or something equally ridiculous. This really is nothing by comparison.” Q ducks away from James touch.

“It’s a head wound. It’s a bit more important.” James pulls Q back into view, squinting intently. It’s not a large cut, all things considered, but Q had been knocked out for a few seconds, and that worries James.

Q sighs, exasperated.

“I don’t see how.”

“Wouldn’t want permanent damage to that pretty little head of yours, would we?” James smirks.

“Oh for heaven’s sake. I should give you a muzzle - one that delivers electric shocks when you think about saying ridiculous things.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Strike that, when you think about saying anything at all. Incorrigible git.”

Q’s imperious tone is belied by the fond smile on his lips.

“I see your sense of humour has been rather badly damaged,” James says, his eyes full of mischief.

“Hmm. Something else to add to your CV,” Q returns, smiling outright now. “Destroyer of equipment _and_ senses of humor.”

“You forgot ‘drowner of cars’ in there.”

“Oh, how could I forget that one?”

“It’s the concussion. Come on, up you get.”

James stands and offers a hand to Q. They’re only a kilometer away from the cabin, and he’d like to reach it before the sun dips behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the trail. James has had enough concussions to know when one is serious, and while Q might be grumpy for a while, and will definitely have a headache tomorrow, he’ll be just fine.

“You’re going to make me walk?” the mock indignation in Q’s voice nearly pulls a laugh from James’ chest.

“I could radio for an extraction.”

“Yes. Muzzle. I can see the plans forming in my head. Electrodes attached to the vocal chords -”

James scoops Q up in his arms and the surprise renders Q silent.

“I can almost see the front door from here, you numpty, but if you insist.”

James cradles Q to his chest, Q’s arms wrapped around his neck, and carries him the rest of the way.


	2. Fieldwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Fear of Heights, Canon-typical action, and a very patient James.

It was the only way. He knew it was the only way, but that didn’t make it any easier. Everyone assumed that his fear of flying was rooted in the machines, but that wasn’t true: it was his fear of heights. Why did they all think Q-branch was always in the basement? His hair certainly didn’t appreciate the damp!

But as he stood at the window of Ned Hollingsworth’s sixth-floor flat (he’d been needed for data extraction, Ned was one of the bright up-and-coming security experts by way of hacking into Q’s carefully baited trap. What they hadn’t realized until too late was that Ned was backed by some very powerful, very scary, very real people with very real guns, who were currently trying to recover their ‘asset’ - and the only thing standing between the boffins and the guns was James Bond) he swallowed hard.

“OUT!” James bellowed over his shoulder.

Q nodded, and ducked through the window and onto the 10cm ledge outside. The fire escape seemed forever away, but Ned had made it, terrified and blubbering about not knowing, the same patent excuse. Hopefully the firefight had scared some sense into the boy.

Q scraped along the ledge, clinging to the bricks with all the strength in his fingertips. It felt like he’d been out there for ages, and a bead of sweat trickled its way into his collar. James climbed out beside him.

“Q, you’re going to have to move faster than that.”

“Can’t” Q squeezed out.

“Shit.” James muttered, then, “I’m right behind you. It’s just a game of ‘the floor is lava’ right? Every kid’s done that. It’s like walking along the back of your sofa to get to the armchair.” 

Q turned and gave James an incredulous look, but he felt the terror slowly seeping out of him; James’ bright eyes soft and earnest.

“Or maybe that was just me? Look, you even have these handy bricks to hang on to.”

Q slid a few more centimeters toward the fire escape, and he heard a door burst open.

“Now would be a really good time to run, Q.”

“Run?”

“Yes. Just - don’t look down.”

Q took a deep breath. James would be right behind him. James was always right behind him. He could do this. He set his eyes on the fire escape railing and put one foot in front of the other. James was right behind him. He set his other foot. Just behind him. So close he could feel his warmth.

“You’re almost there. Three more steps.”

Q took them rapidly, reached out for the edge of the railing and pulled himself over, landing with a clang on his back. He rolled out of the way as James jumped the railing handily, scooped Q up from his stupor, and herded both boffins down the stairs as the glass in the window behind them shattered.

James paused and squeezed off two warning shots at the broken window, and then there was a layer of openwork metal between them and their pursuers. They clattered down the rest of the stairs and out into the alley, barely pausing to gain their bearings before racing off toward the street, and James’ current Aston. The one he’d miraculously been driving for three months and hadn’t blown up, wrecked, or driven into the nearest body of water. 

James slid in behind the wheel and Q all but shoved Ned into the backseat before taking up his customary position riding shotgun. Now that he was on solid ground again, he had his bearings back, and he reached under the seat and pulled out, well, a shotgun. 

Shortened to fit the confines of the vehicle, and more deadly for it, Q lay the weapon across his lap and nodded to James.

Tires squealed against pavement, and the three of them shot off down the street, leaving the thugs far behind.


	3. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Banter, almost entirely dialogue

“Will you just hold still?” 

“It  _ tickles _ !”

“Have you really never-”

“No, I really have not, and this is hardly the time to be bringing it up.”

“Just surprising.”

“Hardly a skill needed in my line of work.”

“I’d say. Most of your staff comes dressed in incomprehensible t-shirts and denim.”

“Half of them are elbow-deep in engines all day. Hardly the time for a three-piece suit.”

“Well, I will concede that point. But honestly, you’ve never-”

“Stop asking! Besides, this was not my idea.”

“No, but if you’re going to attend the ceremony with me, it’s necessary.”

“My attendance at all is, in fact, completely  _ unnecessary _ .”

“If I have to go, so do you.”

“It’s hardly my fault the Yanks want to award you a medal.”

“You were the one I was pulling out of the collapsing building.”

“ _ You  _ were the one who caused the collapse in the first place!”

“Structurally unsound. Couldn’t be helped.”

“I’m sure the C4 had nothing to do with it.”

“Wasn’t that provided by Q-branch?”

“Was it? I’ll have to check our mission kit manifest. I’m sure I didn’t approve that.”

“Slipping me extras again? What will Mallory have to say about that?”

“That you’re a bloody menace, Mr. Bond, and we don’t have time for that if you’re going to insist on hauling me to this ceremony.”

“Bloody nuisance. I’d rather just stay home. Order in a good curry. Watch crap telly. Which is why you’re coming with me.”

“You’re making me suffer because you have to suffer?”

“No, so I have something to look forward to after  It’s always more fun to open a gift that’s been expertly wrapped.”

“James Bond, you will  _ not _ -”

James gave a final tug to Q’s bowtie and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“There. Perfect.”


	4. Paperwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: crack, but cute crack, misuse of government property (but not like that), Q is a shit, and James is not ashamed

Q sits stiffly in one of the purposefully uncomfortable chairs in Mallory’s office, James next to him. Q tries very hard to sit up, one leg crossed primly over the other, hands resting on the arms of the chair. James is sprawled in his, and he keeps running his tongue over his teeth and drumming his fingers against his thighs.

It is exactly three minutes after they’ve taken their seats that Mallory finally looks up from his desk.

“Care to explain these transcripts?” Mallory drops the manila folder he’s been reading from onto the desk and a couple hundred pages, single spaced, printed on both sides, slither out across his blotter.

Q’s entire body goes cold. Those… those were on the private channel. They had to be. The one that only he monitored, the one that wasn’t even registered on Q-branch surveillance because only James had it. But if that was the case, there should be more… twice that much… had he forgotten to switch frequencies? Had he really been that careless? Oh, shit.

“Sir, I can-” Q begins, but James cuts him off.

“What, exactly, does it look like? Sir?” His head is tilted at that precise angle that Q knows means he’s only just holding back from actually assaulting his superior. He’s tugging at his cuff as though it’s personally insulted him, and Q wants to haul him bodily from the office, but that would only make things worse at this point. If Mallory had transcripts from conversations Q had thought were on their private channel, the gig was up. 

He’d lose his position over this for certain.

Oddly, now that he’s actually considering it, it was worth it.

“It looks,” Mallory pauses and eyes them both, “Like conduct unbecoming between an agent and his superior. While in the field, no less.”

“Unbecoming  _ how _ , exactly?”

Q swallows and shifts in his seat. James is playing a very dangerous game, here. Q’s been half-preparing for this ever since he and James had fallen into something more than an occasional shag. He’d begun planning in earnest when the second toothbrush appeared in his medicine cabinet.

Q pulls out his phone, taps the screen six times, and slips it back into his pocket.

Mallory sighs.

“Bond, there are parts of that transcript that describe things I’m not sure are physically possible. In excruciating detail. Shall I read them aloud for you?”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Q cuts in. Knowing James, he’d take great delight in hearing Mallory recount some of the very meticulously described acts James promised when he returned. Some of which he’d delivered on the night before. But that was neither here nor there.

“Look, this isn’t about you being...involved.” Mallory gestures indistinctly between them. “What you do on your time off is your business, but-”

“Sir, I think you’ll find that our paperwork was filed a week ago, and that you signed off on my continuing to handle Bond’s missions. I was quite clear that I wanted to, and that our personal relationship would not interfere at all in my abilities as Quartermaster. Did you...forget?” Q frowns. “I’m terribly sorry that our personal conversations have been brought to your attention, and I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

James turns to look at Q, his expression unreadable, but Mallory’s having none of it.

“I am absolutely certain I would recall a conversation like that, Q.”

“Oh, no, it was via email. Sir.”

The vein in Mallory’s forehead begins pulsing, and his face turns an alarming shade of purple.

“Out. Both of you. Just-” Mallory slumps back in his chair with a sigh of resignation, “keep it off the comms, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” the pair reply in unison. They stand, and James, true to form, holds the door open for Q as they leave the office. Q hears a groan of frustration behind him as James closes the door.

“What did you do?” James murmurs to Q as they head back toward Q-branch.

“I had a few tricks in my pocket. Figured we’d need them sooner or later. Turned out to be sooner, but…”

“I never filed any paperwork.”

“I have your signature on file.” Q swallows, then forges ahead quickly. “We can petition for a retraction, it’s perfectly fine, just…”

James smirks as Q’s mouth attempts to keep up with all the contingencies his mind is throwing at him. He stops mid-thought when James puts a hand on his arm.

“No.”

“No?”

“I like it,” James shrugs. “I think Perkins won the betting pool, though.”

Q’s grin catches at the corners of his mouth, and spreads across his face until his cheeks ache with it. He giggles.

“He’ll be insufferable, now. It was up to… nearly seventy quid, I think.”

James whistles, impressed.

“Well, I’d hate to keep them waiting. Shall we?”

James offers his elbow and Q takes it with a chuckle. They descend into Q-branch to a chorus of cheers.


	5. Untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: destruction of equipment, in first person POV

I want to smack that smug grin right off your face, you know. You’re the only person I know that could have destroyed your equipment while on a  _ reconnaissance _ mission in  _ Budapest _ . I almost think you do it on purpose, just to annoy me, but you’re not that needlessly cruel. Although the expression on your face makes me think that you’ve made an exception in this case.

“What is that behind your back?” I demand, although I already know the answer.

“Nothing much,” you shrug, and I hate that your dismissive grimace somehow makes you even more attractive. As though that were possible.

You pull out the remnants of your kit. Even the reinforced canvas duffel has seen better days and I want to crawl under my desk and slam my head against the courtesy apron until I see stars.

Instead, I put on my ‘I’ve just stepped in something’ face.

“Leave it on the desk, Double-Oh-Seven.”

Your swagger falters. I hardly ever use your number anymore. But this level of destruction takes the bloody cake. You lift the tattered remnants of your kit bag and a lazy dribble of dark fluid plops onto the floor from one corner. It looks like oil, thank god, and not blood, although why there’s enough oil soaked into the canvas to then drip onto my floor is incomprehensible.

You have the decency to at least pretend to look contrite, and I know that means there will be curry takeaway and a film queued up when I get home. At least you know how to apologize, even if you don’t say the words.

“I don’t think you want this on the desk,” you say as another drop of oil spatters onto the floor.

“No. If I didn’t have to itemise it, I’d just tell you to chuck it in the bin. Unfortunately…” I trail off and give you another pointed look. You grin back, but it’s just a formality. I think you might actually be sorry about this one. “Just leave it there.”

You set the duffel back on the floor and take a step towards me. I sigh. In spite of everything I really am glad to see you.

“Welcome home, James.”

I see the light come back into your eyes, then, and you take the last three steps towards me and sweep me backwards, arm around my neck, one hand splayed across my lower back, and you’re kissing me in the middle of Q-branch.

My neck is cradled in your elbow and your other hand is splayed across the small of my back, and it nearly feels like flying. I could be anywhere at all, except there are wolf whistles and applause, and a couple of shouts that I recognize as Sanders and Linfield, who might get to monitor the wilds of Siberia for the next week. 

You pull me back to upright, and your face is glowing.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook for this,” I mutter.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you say with all the mock gravitas you can muster.

I sigh, then smirk in spite of myself, and retrieve the duffel off the floor. It will be a long, frustrating afternoon, but at least I have something to look forward to.


	6. Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: INNUENDOS EVERYWHERE, Epistolary-esque format, banter

Q:You need to get up, Double-Oh-Seven. They’re only a dozen meters behind you now.

007: I think I twisted my ankle, Q.

Q:Twisted?

007: Okay, maybe broken. I can’t put weight on it.

Q: Shit.

007: That was my assessment, too. Glad we can agree on something.

Q: Can you move at all?

[scuffling sounds over the comms]

007: I can hop. Or crawl. What do you suggest?

Q: I like you on your knees. There’s an access panel about two meters down on your right. Do you see it?

007: I’ll show you what I can do on my knees, you cheeky bastard. The panel is also a meter and a half off the ground.

Q: You didn’t say you broke your arms. And that was rather the point, darling. Can you reach it?

007: Yes, dear. 

Q: Excellent. Then I suggest you pry it open and slip inside. Quickly, now. You have [soft beeps and keystrokes] three and a half minutes.

007: Hmm. Usually works better if I coax gently first. [rattling] Easier to get it open that way.

Q: Sometimes it takes a firmer hand.

007: Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?

Q: Sometimes that’s the only way, if it’s being stubborn.

007: You didn’t happen to put a screwdriver somewhere in this Walther, did you?

Q: I  _ knew _ I forgot something.

[more rattling, louder this time

007: It won’t give.

Q: Did you try to charm it off? Usually works with most other things.

007: Only your pants. [more rattling]  _ There _ . It’s open. Now what?

Q: You should see a row of switches to your left.

007: Got it.

Q: Shut them off. All of them.

[clicks, followed by a hiss and deceleration whirr]

007: It’s dark.

Q: Well, I know there’s a flashlight in your kit, or did you already throw that at someone?

007: Ha-bloody-ha. No, it’s here.

Q: Well, you’re not completely in the dark then, are you?

007: No, just mostly. Nothing new there. Now what?

Q: You’ll need to insert the device into the pinhole aperture array. Please tell me you didn’t lose the tie pin.

007: Oh, that was equipment? I thought it was just a gaudy accessory. I left it at the hotel.

Q: Ah. Well, I suppose we’ll have to scrap this mission, then. You’re on your own from here.

007: Well, damn. I was hoping for a first-class flight home. Plenty of room to stretch my legs.

Q: More’s the pity.

007: Any hole in particular?

Q: I thought we’d been over this? It doesn’t matter, as long as it fits.

007: Guess I’ll just have to keep trying until it does, then.

Q: That’s the fun part. Ninety seconds, by the way.

007: No pressure, Q.

Q: None applied, Double-Oh-Seven.

[several seconds of silence]

007: I’m in.

Q: Excellent. Power the switches back on and replace the panel.

007: Figured that part out for myself, ta.

Q: Should I be impressed?

007: It might help me feel useful.

Q: Good heavens, we can’t have that. I’m distinctly unimpressed, then. Once the power is back on, I can open the door to your left, which should lead to a staircase that goes to the roof. I can lock you in until the helicopter is in place. Are you ready?

007: And willing.

Q: I should hope so. On my mark.

********

Tanner leant back in his chair and ran a hand over the top of his head, a gesture left over from when he actually had hair to run his fingers through, before a gaggle of immature double-oh agents had robbed him of it. (He’ll blame his job to his dying day, never mind that his maternal grandfather was bald at thirty.) How in hell was he supposed to submit a mission transcript like this to Mallory? How the hell was Mallory supposed to sign off on it? Tanner scrubbed his face with his hands.

He expected that kind of behaviour from Bond, honestly, but he’d hoped Q would show a bit more professionalism. Then again, he was talking about a man who’d syphoned government funds to build a bloody exploding watch after being specifically told it was a waste of resources. 

Tanner shook his head.

He slid the papers back into the manila folder, sighed, and tucked it under his arm as he stood.

On their own heads be it. If they wanted to behave like children, that was their business. The mission had been a success, and Q had successfully infiltrated their systems, so he supposed the technique wasn’t all that important.

He was going to enjoy watching Mallory’s face, though.

And with that thought tugging a smile into the corners of his mouth, he walked out of his office and up the stairs.


	7. Afternoon Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I am so sorry for the title of this chapter - it was probably two in the morning when I named it, and now it's stuck.)  
> Contains: retirement, a dog, Wales, LETHAL AMOUNTS OF FLUFF

The cabin is about two kilometres from Tregaron, and Q never expected to end up in Wales, but it made a perfect kind of sense in hindsight. He pulls up the drive and parks under the overhang next to the silver Aston Martin DB5. He smiles to himself as the memories burble to the surface: the day James drove them away from MI6 - neither one destined to return in any official capacity; the day James took him for another drive, the drive that brought them here to Tregaron seemingly at random, and the cottage they fell in love with at first sight.

No, he never imagined he’d be contented with this kind of life, or that James would either, but here they were, six years on after their impromptu departure from London, and neither one had the slightest desire for anything else. 

He turns off his own vehicle - a much more practical electric coupe - and pops the boot to retrieve the shopping. Nellie comes running to greet him, the two-year-old Toller nearly bowling him over in her excitement.

“Yes, hello,” Q says. “James must be outside, yeah?” He shuffles toward the door, trying his best not to trip over Nellie, who’s barking animatedly and dashing off around the house toward the back garden. Q pictures James in among the tomatoes, a pile of weeds at his side and a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Alright, alright, I’ll come see what you two have been up to, but I have to put the shopping down first.”

He’d been reluctant about adding the dog to their household. Four cats and the various woodland creatures that ventured near their cottage seemed more than enough, thanks, but James was very good at getting his own way, and Q was very bad at saying no.

It hadn’t been a complete disaster. Aside from the expected accidents, the only casualties of puppy-hood had been Q’s favourite pair of slippers and several bin liners.

Q sets the shopping down on the counter, and Nellie whines and scratches at the back door.

“Alright, alright,” Q says. He pushes open the back door and Nellie is off like a shot, tearing through the bushes at the edge of their back garden and racing into the woods behind the house.

“James?” Q calls, but there’s no answer.

Frowning, Q follows Nellie’s trajectory into the woods, stepping through the dappled light beyond the hedge. It always feels vaguely like he’s stepping into fairyland when he and James take walks here on sunny afternoons, but he’s never said so. It’s a silly, juvenile kind of thing and he knows James would laugh. Just because Q knows it’s silly, though, doesn’t mean he wants to be laughed at about it, and so he’s kept his bit of fancy to himself, quietly scanning the undergrowth for fairy rings or tiny gnomish doorways in the crooks of tree roots.

Nellie comes bounding back, tongue lolling from the side of her mouth.

“Where is he?” Q asks her, stooping to scratch behind her ears.

She gives a single bark, then bounces off again, back the way she came.

“I really ought to start working on that translator,” Q muses aloud. It had become something of a running joke, ever since they’d spent a lazy, rainy Saturday afternoon in front of the telly and  _ Up _ had been on.

Q was convinced Nellie would sound like Dug, all bright exuberance curtailed by furry woodland creatures. The idea hadn’t faded, even though Q knew it was conceptually impossible, and it was at times like this that he really wished it could work.

Regardless, Q continues down the narrow trail worn through the trees by hundreds of years’ worth of deer, and more recently two men, several cats, and one very energetic dog. The trail opens up into a small clearing a few hundred meters along, and that’s where Q finds James, sitting on a blanket spread over the loam, a rattan picnic basket settled next to his hip, and Nellie with her front paws on his shoulders.

“Good girl,” James croons at her. “Good girl.” He takes her head between his hands and scratches behind her ears, and Nellie returns the favour by slobbering all over his face. James laughs, as does Q.

James looks up as he hears Q’s voice, and the crows feet at the corners of his eyes deepen as his lips slide up into a smile.

“I wondered where you’d got to,” Q chides fondly as he settles himself on the blanket next to his husband.

“Surprise,” James murmurs, pulling Q close and pressing a kiss to his neck.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Do I need one?”

“I suppose not, but there usually is one.”

“How about ‘I forgot exactly how this one little strip of skin behind your ear tasted.’”

James nibbles expertly at said strip of skin and Q shivers.

“I…,” Q sucks in a breath as James pulls his earlobe between firm lips, “I think I could go along with that.”

“Mmm.” James agrees as he lowers Q to the blanket.

********

The light between the trees slowly fades from bright yellow afternoon to the red-gold glow of evening. Q hums to himself as he folds the blanket, tucking it under his arm as James repacks the picnic basket. Nellie is snuffling around the edges of the clearing, ensuring that she knows what sorts of creatures have been venturing into her territory.

Satisfied, the three meander back down the deer trail toward the cottage, Nellie in the lead as usual.

James chuckles behind Q, and he turns, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion.

James reaches up and plucks something from the back of Q’s head and holds it out.

“There was a leaf in your hair,” he says simply, and the both of them sputter, the ridiculousness of their afternoon caught out in broad daylight.

“You ought to bring a bigger blanket next time, then,” Q says, grinning.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”


	8. Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: ANGST, Bill Tanner, Drunk James

Q-branch is dark, save for the blue glow of screens and a desk lamp. Q sits at the desk at the far end of the bullpen, his usual perch, and types rapidly for several seconds, then pauses. The reflection in his glasses makes it seem as though he’s fallen asleep, which wouldn’t be inconceivable since it’s nearly half-three in the morning, but then there’s a shake of head, or a slender arm extending towards the mug on the edge of the desk, and the motion shatters the illusion.

Two short, violent bursts of buzzing echo through the cavernous space. Q freezes, clicks his tongue, annoyed that he’s been interrupted, and picks up his phone, thumbing it open as he presses it to his ear.

“Q,” he says.

“Oh, thank god.” It sounds like Tanner, and his tone suggests he’s about ready to pull what hair he has left out of his scalp.

“Tanner?” 

“Yes. Look, I need you to do me a favour.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific before I agree out of hand.”

“I’d do it myself, but Angela’s out of town for business and I can’t leave the kids -” Tanner cuts off.

“What is it?”

“Bond.”

The name sends Q’s stomach sinking into his shoes.

“What’s happened?” Q’s voice is carefully neutral. It could be a million things, he tells himself, but doesn’t believe it.

“Apparently, he’s so drunk he’s gone clean past the belligerent stage into the ‘can’t stand up without assistance’ stage and has texted me that he would like to go home.”

Q stands, transfixed, staring into space, trying to imagine the smooth, swaggering James Bond so completely pissed that he texted  _ Tanner _ to help him stand.

“You’re joking.” Relief mixed with amusement seeps into his voice.

“I wish. Look, can you go?”

Q considers it for a few moments. Despite what his staff likes to think, he and Bond have not been ‘shagging like rabbits from day one.’ As a matter of fact, Q had been willing to dismiss the jolt of electricity he’d felt at their first meeting as a fluke entirely until about a month ago, when Bond had sidled up to him in Q-branch and, in that offhand way he had of talking about absolutely everything important, had managed to invite Q to dinner without ever asking an actual question. 

Dinner had been followed by drinks, which had been followed by the best shag Q had ever had the pleasure of taking part in, which had been followed by a cheeky text from Bond the following day.

And they’d repeated the process three more times since. 

Which isn’t a very good foundation for Q to go hauling one very drunk James Bond out of a pub at half-three.

“Yes.”

 

*****

 

‘Pub’ is stretching the definition a bit. This is sleek and modern, chrome-and-frosted-glass, with experimental jazz on the sound system. Q wrinkles his nose at the pretension, but dutifully scans the space for Bond.

Oh, there he is. In the back corner, of course, so he can watch the pub for what good it will do him.

Q slides into the booth beside him, and his head turns, comically loose, and he frowns.

“You’re not Bill.”

“No.”

“Where’s Bill?”

“At home, asleep, like you should be. What are you drinking?”

“Memories.”

The word is barely audible above the music and conversations surrounding them, and Q instantly regrets his query. 

Bond stares down at the glass, at the yellow-gold liquid in the bottom of it. There’s history there, history that Q can only guess at, even though he’s read the mission files a dozen times or more. He knows enough to understand that the file has likely omitted the most salient details. Understands that he’ll never really know the demons Bond is trying to slay.

Q tells himself it’s fine. This isn’t that serious, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Q says.

“What are  _ you _ sorry for?” Bond spits.

“Nothing. Forget it.” Q slides out of the booth. “Come on, I promised Tanner I’d take you home.”

“Oh, you’re Bill’s errand boy, are you? Come to make sure I don’t end up in a gutter somewhere?”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“Oh, right.” Bond’s lips twist into a wolfish grin, a parody of his usual polish and charm. “Hoping I’ll invite you up for a nightcap?”

Q knows it’s a reflex, this hard-edged innuendo. It’s been ground into him so deep he might not even realise how much it hurts.

“No,” Q says, and the flicker of uncertainty across Bond’s face does  _ not _ give him a thrill of satisfaction. “Not like this.”

“Not like what?”

“You’re drunk.” Q says, using the same inflexion he does when explaining something to one of his less-intuitive staffers.

“And?”

Q takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and counts to five in his head before turning and pinning Bond in the booth with an ice-cold stare.

“You’re  _ drunk _ . You’ve been sitting in this pub for god knows how long, drowning yourself in gin, and suddenly you think you can just wink at me and all my clothes are going to fall off? That is not how this works, James.”

The name pops out before Q can stop it. He bites his lips, waiting to see if Ja - if  _ Bond _ \- catches on to the slip.

“You called me James,” he says, and there’s a moment after he finishes the thought that Q swears his eyes soften, the walls behind them crumble, but they’re rebuilt in an instant and the swagger is back. “I wonder what that sounds like in bed.”

“You’re not finding out tonight.”

“Why are you giving me such a hard time about this?” James’ tone is wheedling, coaxing, and he shifts to the edge of the booth, his hand seeking Q’s. Q knows this ploy, though. Knows it far too well to allow it to work.

“Because I fucking  _ care _ , you idiot.” Q pulls his hand away from James’ and steps back. “Probably far too much. Now get up so I can put you in a cab. I need to tell Tanner at least that much.”

James scowls, but does, in fact, lever himself off the bench. He’s swaying a bit unsteadily, and Q, despite his better judgement, offers his arm.

James smirks, haughty even as he nearly trips over a chair leg on their way out the door.

True to his word, Q sits James down in a cab. He’s about ready to shut the door when James leans out.

“Come with me.” And the tone is more earnest than it was inside the pub. He’s actually asking this time, Q can see it in the way his eyes catch the streetlight. “Come home with me, Q.”

Q sighs and leans in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the corner of James’ mouth.

“Ask me again when you’re sober,” Q whispers. “If you remember.” He ducks back out of the cab and slams the door home before James can say anything else. He watches the cab roll up the street and take a right, disappearing between darkened shops and off into the night.


	9. Postcard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct continuation of chapter 8.  
> Contains: apologies without saying 'sorry' and, obviously, postcards.

It’s two full days before Bond walks into Q-branch again. It’s not a long visit, just an exchange of nods between them as he is fitted for a modified holster, but Bond pulls something out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and lays it on Q’s desk before he leaves.

Q is in the middle of a rather tricky bit of code, and so doesn’t remember it’s there until nearly lunchtime.

It’s a postcard with a standard view of the Thames featuring the London Eye. Q frowns at it, perplexed, and then turns it over. 

_ I didn’t forget. Thanks for the cab. -J _

Q’s not exactly sure how he should take this. Is it sarcastic? Sincere? Cheeky? His only clue is the single letter signature, which makes him think this is very possibly an honest apology. Or as close to an apology as Bond will ever give him. He tucks the card away in his own breast pocket. It’s this little nagging pinprick just under his pectoral, and he winces every time he forgets the card is there and goes to grab his tea, but it somehow makes him smile and so it stays.

Four days later, with no word from Bond otherwise, a postcard is laying on his desk when he arrives in Q-branch. This one has a photo of a crumbling castle on the front that looks suspiciously Scottish. His theory is confirmed when he turns it over and the structure is identified as Neidpath Castle underneath a short note in Bond’s distinctive hand.

It’s a set of coordinates that look to be somewhere in London, which, with the photo, makes very little sense at all.

Why Bond chose a Scottish castle to begin with is perplexing to say the least. Why he accompanied it with coordinates for a location in London is even more vexing. Well, there’s little to do apart from discover where the coordinates lead. It wouldn’t surprise him if they were the coordinates of James’ flat, honestly. It would suit the agent’s style.

With more than a hint of cynicism, Q pulls up the location.

It’s the Landmark restaurant, and Q’s befuddlement only grows. He flips the postcard over in his hands, looking for something, anything else that would give him some kind of clue.

He stops for an instant, peering at the photograph of the castle. There’s something - and without magnification, Q can’t make out what it is - out of place along the right-hand side of the castle. His first thought is to call Boyd, he’s the imaging expert after all, but then he remembers that this is Bond, and decides that sharing it with his staff is a monumentally Bad Idea.

He scans it in at the highest resolution, then begins the painstaking process of refining the image to magnify the tiny figure near the castle.

He works for an hour before it becomes clear that the figure next to the castle is actually Bond, hands in his pockets, staring off to his left across the valley.

“What the hell?” Q mutters to himself as he runs one last cleanup.

This day has officially become bizarre, and he’s had to extract agents from eel-infested lakes. 

What was next? All the clues must be on this postcard, and why was Bond going to all the trouble, anyway, and more importantly, why was Q going through with it? He huffed, annoyed at himself and Bond, and set the postcard aside. He didn’t have time to fool with cryptic postcards from a self-important spy.

Q brings up his scanners, the transcripts from the overnight crew from the comms, and a blueprint for the modifications he’s considering for the Ducati for 003. He very valiantly attempts to forget about the postcard for three whole hours, but it nags at him, and won’t let go.

There has to be something more to it, something he isn’t seeing.

_ Of course you’d believe that _ , the voice in the back of his head chides.  _ You want there to be something else, something clever. You always want things to be clever _ .

What do the coordinates have to do with anything? Why is Bond in the postcard’s photograph? The questions will not let go, and Q finally gives up trying to do actual work and picks up the postcard again.

He doesn’t know what makes him think of it, isn’t sure which piece of intuition says that he should find facade images of the Landmark, but that was what finally connected the dots.

Somewhere in the bowels of Google Earth, he finds it: a single image of James standing next to the Landmark with an oversized sign in his hands.

_ Reservations are for Thursday at 7 _

Q lets out a bark of laughter at the absolute cheek of it, but is actually rather impressed with Bond. To go to all that trouble to take a film photograph, have it printed into a postcard, and who the hell did he know that could put this nonsense in the backlogs of Google Earth? Q shakes his head, turning the postcard over in his fingers. He taps the edge against the desk, then tucks it into his breast pocket, patting it into place with an amused smirk that follows him around for the rest of the day.

 

Dinner, by the way, is excellent, and Bo - no, James - drops Q off at his doorstep with nary an ulterior motive. Q pulls James in for a kiss by his tie and leaves him panting on the stoop. He thinks that playing hard to get might just get him everything he wants.


	10. Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's NSFW kids!  
> Contains: A blowjob. Bet you can guess where!

Q’s head thuds against the wall of his office as James slides down his body, calloused hands catching on soft knit as he lifts Q’s cardigan to uncover his belt buckle.

Q’d sworn never to do this.

He already toes the line of professionalism as it is, and this (if they’re caught, please god let them not get caught) would end his career for certain. But he’s not stopping James as he slides his trousers down around his knees, and he’s not saying ‘no’ as James mouths him through the fabric of his pants. Perhaps he should be, but James has been gone for weeks and Q’s self-control is frayed to the very edge of snapping. Deep cover meant no comm, and while Q could track James via CCTV, among other things, he hadn’t spoken to him since James had boarded the flight to Singapore.

James’ tongue presses into the crease of his thigh, lips firm and insistent as he edges ever closer to Q’s bollocks before pulling one, then the other into his mouth--

“ _ Fuck!”  _ Q fists his hands in James’ hair, the sudden warm, wet slide of tongue on his cock infuriatingly decadent.

“Shh,” James murmurs into his pubic hair, causing gooseflesh to ripple up Q’s spine. “They’ll hear us.”

Q bites his lip and screws his eyes shut, swallowing a moan, as James takes him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. 

Q’s fingers dig into James’ scalp, grounding him, the pressure of James’ lips telling him in no uncertain terms ‘yes, I’m home; yes, I’m alive’ and the elastic band behind Q’s eyes releases its tension bit by bit as the sparks skittering over his skin catch fire.

Q scrabbles at James’ collar, tugging on it, pulling him up for a searing kiss that leaves them both panting.

Q presses his face into the angle of James’ neck as James takes him in hand, fingers dragging along his cock, thumb sliding over the head on every other stroke. 

“Shit,” Q mutters into James’ skin, his hips snapping, thrusting into the tight circle of James’ hand. He fumbles at James’ belt, fingers numb, but James bats his hands away.

“No, darling, I’ll get my prize tonight.”

The thought of what James is promising finally pulls the moan from his throat, as much as he tries to suppress it, and James covers his mouth in a kiss to dampen the sound. Another kiss, tongues a delicate tangle, and then James is on his knees again, pressing kisses into Q’s straining cock before taking him all the way down, swallowing around him.

“James,” Q warns, but James doesn’t pull off, simply looks up at Q through his lashes, and that’s all it takes. Q’s orgasm comes crashing down on him with a blinding intensity that drains him completely. James sucks him through it, gentling him down until he’s so sensitive it borders on pain and he pushes James away with a hiss.

James, for his part, makes a show of swallowing and licking his lips and Q’s cock gives a half-hearted twitch of interest but it’s impossible to even consider anything except slumping against the wall for a moment to catch his breath.

“Do you think you’ll make it through dinner, now?” James asks, smug.

“Mm,” Q concedes. It takes a concentrated effort of will for his hands to be dexterous enough to button his flies, and it’s a herculean task to fit his belt together, but he manages.

James stands, a bit stiffly, and reaches out to straighten Q’s tie.

“Does that make up for the helicopter?”

“No,” Q says matter-of-factly.

“You sure?”

“Try incapacitating the pilot before takeoff next time. It saves a bit of trouble, and will likely increase my lifespan.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” James kisses the corner of Q’s mouth before opening the door to the office and gesturing for Q to exit.

“As well you should,” Q returns biting his lips to keep the grin from lighting up his face. 


	11. Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: ANGST. Like, wow angst. This one is not happy, folks. It's just not.

Q sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet squidging against the floorboards, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. James lay behind him, frowning, hand stopped halfway to Q’s back. 

It was six in the morning, and watery grey light seeped in between the curtains, barely leaving enough light to make out more than the tired black shadows of the wardrobe and dresser along the opposite wall. 

It had been eating at Q for a long time, but he’d never been able to bring himself to ask. Mostly because he didn’t want to know the answer, because once he knew the answer, he knew it would all be over. There was no way to change it now, it had gone on too long. There was too much distance. 

It wasn’t James’ fault, not really. He was what he was, and Q had thought he’d understood that in the beginning. He thought he’d understood the layers, the facades, the personas. Thought he’d be able to peel back the shields and find the man underneath. But no matter how much he thought he knew, he always felt shut out, excluded from the one person he wanted to know. And as he sat there, feet cold and face hot, he wasn’t sure what it would take to break him back open, make him willing to try again. He could barely remember when it seemed like James cared.

He’d said as much to James, certain that any mention of actual emotions would send the man running at the first opportunity. It was only a matter of time, now, before the bed shifted and James pulled on his trousers and walked out the door.

“Simon?”

Q choked back a sob. That name spoken with that voice would always crumble his best defences, but he wasn’t about to let it happen now. Not now, too much was at stake.

“Simon, look at me. Please?”

“Why, James? So you can flash those bedroom eyes at me and hope I’ll shut up and snuggle back under the blankets? So you can use that famous charm to worm your way into not answering?”

“No. So you can see that I’m sincere.”

Q scoffed.

“I can’t ever tell anymore. I thought I could. I thought I could tell the difference between the James you were at home, with me, and Agent Bond in the office, and Double-Oh-Seven in the field. I thought I knew. But that’s not how it works, is it?”

“Not...exactly. No.”

Q felt the bed shift, and braced himself for the slamming of the door, but it never came. Instead James’ arms wrapped around his middle and his forehead rested against Q’s back between his shoulder blades.

Q should pull free. He should remove himself from the embrace, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to abandon the warmth of James’ skin.

“That’s not how it works because the man I am here started to bleed into everything else, and I felt it compromised my ability to perform.” James pressed his lips to Q’s spine. 

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Q sniped, half-heartedly trying to wriggle free at last.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to make you feel better, Simon. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or who I’m supposed to be.”

That pushed Q up and off the bed. He turned, eyes flashing anger, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I want you to be yourself! All of yourself, not just what you think I want to see. Not just who you think I want you to be, because I guarantee you you’ll get that one wrong.” Q pointed at James, who was regarding him with a look of mild confusion. “I want your rough edges and your bad dreams and your god-awful taste in films. I want your morning breath and your dirty pants in the corner of the loo, god help me. I want your balled-up socks in the middle of the living room floor when you peel them off at night and I want the cats to use them for batting practice at three in the morning until one of us has to go toss them in the basket.” Q spread his arms wide. “I want  _ you _ , James. All of it. And I don’t know if you’ll let me.”

“It’s too dangerous. It’s too bloody dangerous for that. It’ll kill you.”

Q didn’t have to be told where James’ mind had immediately descended. Despite their similarities, and even Q was taken aback at that, he was not her, wouldn’t become her.

“ _ This _ is killing me. It’s either all or nothing, and I can’t - I  _ won’t _ \- let myself settle anymore. I will always choose you, James. But you have to choose me, too.”

Q waited, his breath stuck in the back of his throat, for his answer. 


	12. Oranges an Lemons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Epistolary


	13. The First Moment of the Rest of Their Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Lite Angst

James doesn’t say anything for a long time afterwards. He’s studying Q with that hard, scrutinising gaze, all tight around the eyes, mouth pursed. He could be a statue, carved of marble, set on display in a museum. 

“If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?” he says, and Q frowns. 

“Of course.”

James sighs. Words are too easy, but Q’s face is open, earnest, trying to understand. James wonders if Q will ever, truly, understand. But that’s a question for another day, a question for another time, when they’re not shagged out and half-asleep. James tries to take the marble mask off, let his face rest. He’s not sure he knows what his expression is when it’s not schooled into that careful stoicism. It’s been too long, too many years with only his Walther for company. He’s forgotten how to be with another person, how to open up, how to trust on a personal level, and maybe he’ll never remember. And that’s not fair to Q.

Q who is young and vibrant.

Q who is ethereally beautiful and should have men falling at his feet daily.

Q who could choose to sleep next to anyone in the world, and he chooses a broken, washed up assassin with a hero complex.

James is self-aware enough to know that about himself. It’s how he gets into trouble. It’s how he loses so much of Q’s precious equipment. Never mind that eight times out of ten he’s anti-hero at best. 

But Q’s staring at him, his fingers brushing over his bicep, and his eyes are full of something James never thought he’d see again, and the words come out in a terrible rush.

“Do you love me?”


	14. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Utter, ridiculous fluff

Q’s laughing.

James isn’t sure exactly what’s set him off this time, but it doesn’t matter. His eyes are crinkled at the edges and his mouth is open, Adam's apple bobbing, voice musical in its merriment. James isn’t sure why the words come to him. He considers them for a while, turns them over in his mind, wondering at the phrase and why that particular word happens to be so perfectly applicable to Q in this moment. He decides, after a few seconds, that he should say them, that it shouldn’t bother Q too terribly much, and that after all the flirting being done on both sides, an innocuous comment wouldn’t be too far out of place.

“Why are you laughing?” he tries, with a disarming smile.

Q scoffs with a dramatic eye roll, but doesn’t answer. His cheeks flush a perfect shade of pink, just a few shades lighter than his lips. He ducks his head and brings his hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

It’s a small thing, but the gesture pulls James’ attention to it, and he’s suddenly wondering what it tastes like, if it’s as smooth under his lips as it looks, if Q would let him suck a bruise just below his collar.

But that is not for today. Today is for seeing if he can make Q laugh again, a genuine, deep-seated guffaw. Because while it may not be set to a tune, the sound of Q’s laughter is music to James’ ears.


	15. Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: dancing, James is a dork, questionable taste in music

Q can hear the radio blaring [some awful pop song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMqgVXSvwGo) from outside the flat, which means James has either given up completely or he’s in the middle of restoring the flat to military precision after being gone for a week.

Q tries, but he’s just too busy to really keep after the flat the way he should, and James is so much better at that sort of thing, anyway, and honestly it looks like he actually kind of enjoys cleaning? Regardless, Q is content to leave James to it, and James is content to do the cleaning, so the arrangement works well. Except when James is away.

Q unlocks the front door and slips inside. The music is almost unbearably loud in here, the thump of bass reverberating in Q’s brain.

It has a good beat to it, and the horn riff in the chorus is catchy, and Q finds himself nodding his head to the beat as he wanders through the flat looking for James.

He finds him in the kitchen, elbow-deep in the washing-up, wearing nothing but his pants. Which isn’t unusual. What _is_ unusual is the fact that James is actually dancing.

Well, more of a hip-wiggle to the beat and a tapping of toes as he pulls another plate out of the sink and rinses it off before spinning around at a particularly dramatic moment, plate in his outstretched hands.

He freezes when he sees Q leaning up against the doorway to the kitchen, amused grin splitting his face.

“You’re too damn cute, you know,” Q ventures as he steps into the kitchen properly. “Also ridiculous. What on earth would Double-Oh-Nine say about this?” Q bites his lip, waiting for the sputtering to begin.

Strangely, it doesn’t.

“He’d probably be blind jealous that he missed the show,” James deadpans, then places the dish elegantly into the drying rack and turns back to the sink, hips swaying again, but this time with intent. Q doesn’t even pretend to resist.

He slides up behind James, his hands on those tantalising hips, and rests his lips against James’ back, kissing each individual freckle as James finishes the washing-up.

“That’s not helping this get done faster, you know,” James chides half-heartedly as he rinses off another plate.

“Oh, was I meant to be helping?” Q murmurs. “My mistake.”

But he doesn’t stop the feather-light kisses across James’ back.

“Bloody menace.” James is turned in a moment, capturing Q’s lips with his own, pulling Q up flush against him, and Q’s rather proud of himself, honestly. James is rock-hard in his pants, his cock pressing into the crease of Q’s thigh.

“I suppose,” Q begins, but the rest of his thought is swallowed in James’ mouth.

There’s a muffled cry of surprise as James lifts Q into his arms and carries him back through the flat to the bedroom.


	16. Equipment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: James is such an ass in this one, new equipment

“This will only take a second,” Q says, trying to keep his voice from squeaking like a teenager. It doesn’t matter how many times Bond comes into Q-branch, his adrenaline always goes through the roof when he does.

It might have something to do with his eyes, or maybe his ears, or the bloody illegal cut of his suit that covered everything but left nothing to the imagination. Maybe it was some kind of heady mix of all three. Whatever it was, the man made Q behave like an idiot at every conceivable opportunity and it drove the Quartermaster right round the bend.

What made it worse was the fact that Bond  _ knew _ it. 

Which made the grins and the flirting so cheap. It couldn’t possibly be sincere, not with Bond, and yet Q basked in the attention, in the scraps of praise uttered in that silk-and-gravel voice. 

“Only one? That’s a shame, I think I’ll rather enjoy this.”

Bond is shrugging out of his jacket, grinning. Q needs precise measurements for a new type of super-slim body armour, and Bond is the last on the list. All the other Double-Ohs had been fitted a week ago. Q had considered hacking Bond’s tailor instead, but thought that might be a bit obvious.

So, with flaming pink cheeks and a healthy dose of snark to ward off the worst of the innuendo, he set to work.

Arms, back, neck, noting each measurement as he went, and then, of course, it was time to measure Bond’s chest.

Bond’s smirk isn’t helping as Q steps into his personal space to pull the tape measure around him.

“Is this supposed to be skin-tight?” he asks as Q snugs the tape.

“Lightweight body armour for under your clothes.” Q snaps. “Of course it’ll be snug.”

“Then maybe I should remove my shirt?” Bond offers.

“Unnecessary. These measurements will be sufficient.” Q all but barks. James turns ever so slightly, his face even with Q’s as Q tries to back up without losing his place on the tape measure.

“If you’re sure.” He grins. “Q.”

“Positive.”

“Oh, well. Your loss.” James picks up his jacket as Q jots down the final number. “By the way, do we get a fitting for this?”

“Yes?” Q’s wary, now. Unsure of what Bond has up his sleeve, but he’s sure it’s something.

Bond leans close to Q as he finishes buttoning his jacket.

“Can I request a private one?”

The quirk in Bond’s eyebrow is all sex and Q can feel the blush creeping up into his ears.

“Cheeky. You haven’t even taken me to dinner yet.” Q says, and Bond’s eyes light up.

“I’ll be ‘round at seven,” he replies, winking, then walks off.

Q watches him go, jaw hanging slack, wondering how on earth he ever got into this mess.


	17. Cabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: injured!Q, Canadian Shack trope, hurt/comfort, preslash, fluff

Long story short, it had been an avalanche. Of course, avalanches tended to happen when you  _ crashed cars into the side of a mountain _ .

“For once, just for once, could you, I don’t know,  _ not _ make things explode in dramatic and useless ways?” Q’s diatribe lacks its usual vitriol seeing as it’s delivered between chattering teeth. James shrugs and keeps walking, Q trudging along at his side, shivering. At least he’s still shivering, James observes. If he quits shivering, they’ll really be up a creek.

“Where is this cabin?” James asks, trying to divert Q’s attention.

“Four klicks west, so said the GPS. But the battery ran out about an hour ago, so what do I know?”

“We should be close, then.”

“How the hell do you know where you’re at? Everything looks the same!”

“I really, really don’t want to be condescending right now, but,” James pauses for a moment. “Do you see the glowing disc up there behind the clouds?” James points. “That would be the sun. It’s setting. In the west. We’ve been making good time, considering the terrain and the weather and your arm,” he nods at the broken arm Q is cradling against his stomach, “we should be coming up on the cabin in the next twenty minutes or so.”

“Oh ha-bloody-ha. Very amusing.”

“You think you could do better?” James spits back.

“I don’t have much of a choice but to follow. Since you  _ blew up the car _ .”

James bites back on a retort. It would do no good, and just invite more useless invectives from Q. He settles for rolling his eyes and moving off over the undulating landscape, Q trailing him, biting out disparaging comments all the way.

***

It is almost exactly twenty minutes later when the roof of a tiny cabin comes into view.

“Oh thank god,” James murmurs to himself. He turns, making sure that Q is still behind him. He’d been flagging the past five minutes, falling farther and farther out of step and one heart-stopping moment when he seemed about to collapse. But he’d angrily waved off James’ offer of a shoulder to lean on and stubbornly trudged on. His nose is bright red and dripping and his teeth have stopped chattering, and James wants to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way to the cabin, but he can already hear Q’s indignant squawk and settles for slowing his pace to Q’s, staying by his side. 

It wouldn’t do to go losing his Quartermaster now. 

The mission, if he could even really call it that, had been simple. Escort the Quartermaster across Europe to a meeting with his counterpart in Germany. Simple. 

Well, it should have been simple.

Like most things James sets out to do, complications arose rather quickly, culminating in his, albeit inadvertent, crashing of their car into the side of a mountain. The resulting avalanche was hardly his fault, but had stopped their pursuers cold, so to speak.

The two of them only just managed to squeak out without traumatic injuries. James has shrapnel cuts across his face (Again. At least one of these is likely to scar) but is otherwise unhurt, but Q’s arm is broken, James doesn’t know how badly, and it’s put a damper on both his mood and his speed. And there’s the snow.

The cabin is a welcome sight, indeed: not a safe-house precisely, but close enough, and secluded enough, that the pair of them should be safe until their distress beacon calls in the cavalry.

***

There’s only one bed.

Of course there would only be one bed, it’s not like this cabin was meant for multiple occupancy. It’s one-room construction, with a wood-burning stove at one end, flanked by cabinets, and a bed at the other. James is relieved to see the first-aid kit is still well-stocked, and that there are half a dozen tins of beans and a small pot to cook them in. The cabin hasn’t been as neglected as he’d feared. A basket of kindling and a stack of firewood just outside the door complete the amenities. If there is a water pump, it’s outside and buried under the snow. No matter, they can use snowmelt.

Q sits heavily on the bed, and grimaces in pain as he fumbles his broken arm. James immediately pulls the first-aid kit down and kneels at Q’s feet, frowning at the arm that’s swelled to twice its normal size and is an ugly blue-purple just above the wrist. He prods at the injury tentatively, and is not pleased by what he finds.

“I’ve got to set the bone,” James says. “This is going to hurt.”

Q grits his teeth and nods once, then screws his eyes shut.

James takes a deep breath and slips the bone back into place in a swift, sure move, lashing two pieces of kindling on either side of the break with gauze from the first-aid kit.

Q doesn’t even flinch.

James would be impressed if he didn’t know it was from the shock. Q’s face is ashen and beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. He’s stopped shivering, but at this point it’s impossible to tell if that’s good or bad. They’re out of the wind, but the cabin is still freezing and their breaths cloud in front of their mouths.

“Good,” he says pointlessly, and rummages in the kit for some painkillers, coming up with some high-dose paracetamol, but nothing else. Well, it will have to do.

He offers them to Q who swallows them dry. 

“Here.” James pulls the musty quilt down, and Q doesn’t resist when James helps him lay down. Which he should be doing. Q should be complaining at him, chastising him for wrecking yet another car, complaining about his arm. Strange how he misses the annoyance when it’s expected. 

“I’m going to go bring in some firewood,” James says, and Q stares at him impassively for several moments too long before nodding.

He’s got to get his feet elevated. The recovery team should be here within six hours, but Q’s not used to dealing with this level of injury without treatment. He’s beginning to slip, and James would be damned if he’d let that happen. Not again.

He brings in an armload of firewood and dumps it next to the stove, pulling out several pieces and wrapping them in a sheet before gently sliding them under Q’s feet.

Q groans, the first noise he’s made since all but collapsing on the bed.

“I’m going to start a fire.”

“Mm. ‘M cold,” Q mumbles and shifts uncomfortably under the quilt.

“Okay,” James replies, nodding. “We’ll get you warm.”

“Thanks.”

It’s just a word. One syllable, commonly thrown out without even thinking. But something about that barely voiced gratitude cracks James like an egg, and he frowns at Q for a moment before putting it in the back of his mind to focus on what needs to be done.

The kindling is dry and catches immediately, but the wood’s damp from the snow and takes a while to light. By the time the fire’s large enough for James to shut the door of the stove, Q’s eyes are closed. His breathing is even, though, and when James lifts his wrist to check his pulse, Q stirs. His eyes are soft and out-of-focus, and maybe it’s the last vestiges of shock or the onset of the painkillers, but James could swear they’re full of a fondness he never would have imagined.

“Still cold?” James asks, because he has to say something, he can’t just keep staring at Q like this, and it seems the most logical thing in the moment.

Q nods.

“Warm me up?” he says, with enough cheek that it pulls a laugh from James.

He pulls off his coat and lays it on the floor, followed by his jacket.

“You know, this isn’t exactly how I envisioned getting into your bed,” James says.

“But you  _ had _ envisioned it,” Q says, and James can see the information process through his drug-muddled brain, culminating in a wide smile.

James sighs. Now is not the time for a conversation like that. Instead, he just smiles back and says, “Budge up, then.”


	18. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents: NSFW. Very NSFW. All those sex tags? this is the ficlet they're for.

It’s not a penthouse suite, not by a long shot, but it is a cosy flat in the centre of Paris with windows that look out onto the Eiffel Tower.

It’s so ridiculously cliche that James is almost ashamed.

Almost.

He would be if it weren’t for Q standing at the window, arms crossed over his bare chest, staring out into the night.

“Isn’t this a gorgeous view?” he says, stepping up behind Q and wrapping his arms around his waist.

Q leans back into the embrace, hands coming to rest atop James’.

“It really is.” He turns and cups James’ face in his hands. “But I must say, I prefer this one.” Q leans in and kisses James, just a brush of lips, sweet and chaste, then pulls back, James chasing the kiss until Q’s backed up against the window. 

He smirks when Q gasps at the chill of the glass on his skin.

“I can think of a better one,” James murmurs into Q’s ear as he lifts him up, Q’s legs automatically wrapping around his waist.

Q laughs into the crease of James’ neck.

“Oh, you naughty man.”

“Mm,” James agrees as he works on Q’s flies with one hand as he holds him up against the glass. Q undoes the buttons of James’ shirt, pushes it off his shoulders, and drags his lips along the skin he’s exposed before moving lower, expertly unbuckling James’ belt one-handed and unbuttoning his flies.

James sucks in a breath, melting into the familiar cadence of Q’s kisses along his trapezius muscle, hissing as Q sucks a bruise there before capturing his mouth again as James takes them both in hand. 

James peeks over Q’s shoulder, out into the nightscape of the city, and grins.

“You think we have an audience?” he murmurs into Q’s ear. “I bet there’s somebody down there on the pavement watching you right now, staring at your back pressed up against the glass.”

James can feel Q’s cock twitch in his hand, grow harder at the implication. 

“Shall we give them a show?”

“Shit, James,” Q breathes. He’s bucking against James’ hand, straining to snap his hips, create more friction against his straining cock, but there’s not enough room between James and the solid glass for him to manoeuvre. 

“Stand up,” James says.

Q unlaces his legs from around James’ waist and stands, cock bobbing obscenely against his stomach. James smirks, pulls Q against him and sucks a bruise into Q’s elegant neck just above where his collar sits, and Q breathes a long low moan at the ceiling. He releases suddenly, almost violently, panting.

“Don’t move,” he barks, and stumbles to the bedside table and snatches up the lube from the drawer. Q’s eyes widen with surprise and pleasure as he lazily tugs at his cock, waiting impatiently.

“Oh, fuck.” James steps out of his trousers completely, but his shirt is still hanging on his shoulders, fluttering open, and Q is convinced there’s not anything on this earth as erotic as watching James Bond stalk him half-dressed, cock hard and leaking, jutting out obscenely through his shirttails. It would be enough to make him instantly hard, if he wasn’t already aching. He begins to move his hand over himself with purpose, now, but James bats it away as he closes in.

“Turn around,” he says, and Q does. “Put your hands on the glass and spread your feet.”

James’ warm hand comes to rest on the small of Q’s back as he obeys, sliding down over the rise of his arse and squeezing, kneading.

“Look down there,” James murmurs as he continues, “all those people down there, on the pavement. I want everyone to know how gorgeous you are.” 

There is the snap of a lid and Q shivers as cold lube drizzles over his arse. James runs a slick finger through his cleft, over his hole, and Q’s eyes slide shut.

“Open your eyes.”

Q’s eyes snap open and meet James’ in the half-reflection of the glass.

“They’re all going to know you’re gorgeous, and they’re all going to know you’re  _ mine _ .”

On the final word, James slips a finger inside, and Q sucks in a breath through his teeth at the sudden intrusion. The stretch is familiar, and it isn’t long before James adds a second finger, sliding in and out of him, brushing over his prostate without a pattern he could discern. Q watches the pseudo-reflection of James as he opens him up, the raw hunger and awe in his expression aphrodisiac enough for decades worth of fantasies

“Jesus, Q. Look at you.” James lifts his eyes to meet Q’s again in the glass. Q bites his lip and wriggles his arse against James’ fingers.

“Go on, then,” Q says, voice rough with want, “fuck me.”

The growl that echoes up from James’ chest sends sparks flying across Q’s skin until they all gravitate to his cock, which drips obscenely onto the floor. James pulls his fingers out, and the momentary emptiness is torture, but then James is pressing his cock up against Q’s hole, pressing, pressing, until it pops in, and they both groan in relief.

There is little preamble and then James is moving, the slick slide of his cock causing all those sparks to jump and fizz along Q’s length.

“James,” Q moans, “James, please-”

Q watches the pink flush of arousal creep across James’ chest, the sweat collect in his fringe, and every few moments, their eyes lock in reflection and Q pushes back against James.

There are people walking by under their window, but Q can’t be arsed to care if they see or not, and part of him rather hopes they do, hopes they know he belongs to the man currently fucking him into oblivion, hopes they can see how good it is, hopes they’re just a bit jealous it’s not them. 

He grins to himself about that for a moment, but then James’ hand wraps around his cock and starts stroking in time with his thrusts, and Q’s entire thought processes go offline as he drowns in the flood of sparks dancing across his skin. James wraps his other arm around Q’s stomach, hand splayed over his heart, holding him in place as James increases his pace, snapping his hips so skin meets with a sharp slap.

He can feel the sparks pooling in the pit of his stomach, and when they reach critical mass, explode, and Q comes with a shout, spattering the glass. James isn’t far behind, his rhythm stuttering as he crests, pulling out at the last moment to fist himself over the edge, come lacing Q’s back and arse.

James’ forehead rests on Q’s shoulder for a moment. 

“Christ,” he proclaims between breaths.

“Yeah,” Q agrees. 

James pulls Q away from the window, turning him, and claiming his lips in a fiery, if sated, kiss. They break apart and grin, and Q pads off toward the shower, James close on his heels.


	19. Q-branch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: More questionable taste in music, Q under a car

There’s some sort of horrid screeching noise emanating from Q-branch when James wanders down after a debrief with Mallory. It’s ridiculously late at night, so late he could probably classify it as early, actually, if he hadn’t just crossed six time zones. He couldn’t sleep right now if he were paid to.

He wonders if Q’s torturing a cat, but then realises who he’s thinking about and shakes his head. Whatever’s going on in there, animals are decidedly uninvolved. Unless he’s brought the beasties in to work again.

James pushes the door open and he’s assaulted by a wall of angry noise that he assumes must be music because there’s something that sounds like guitars and he can occasionally pick out a word between screeches.

It’s sort of like walking through a soup made of noise, it takes effort to move through the air toward Q, or what James can see of him anyway, which is literally just his feet sticking out from underneath a Jag. The car is for 004, it must be. Jeremy’s always been kind of a ponce like that. 

James steps up beside Q’s feet and stands there drowning in noise for as long as he can stand it before tapping Q’s calf with the toe of his shoe.

Q rockets out from under the car, murder in his eyes, until he sees who it is that’s interrupted him, and his gaze turns positively lethal. James grins.

Q says something James can’t hear over the noise, but he assumes it’s a rather inventive string of obscenities. Q pulls out his phone and taps twice and the sudden silence rings in James’ ears.

“Was that…,” James hesitates, unsure if Q can actually hear him speak. He’s having a hard time hearing himself.

“Vallenfyre,” Q offers.

“Gesundheit.”

Q levels an ‘are you really that stupid’ look at James. 

“The name of the band.”

“You call that music?” James puts on his best ‘ironically astonished’ face.

“Better than the tripe you make me load into your entertainment system on your Aston. Which, by the way, has been pushed back again. 009’s takes precedence.”

“Bloody typical, and what do you mean tripe? Depeche Mode is  _ classic _ .”


	20. Well, It's a Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Angst.

“You -” Q wrings his hands. This has been a long time coming, and Q had thought he would settle into the pitch and rhythm of it, but going through the mental exercise of James going out on a honeypot and actually having to monitor it on the comms are two entirely different things, even though James always politely removes the earwig before the, er, main event. 

“Q?” And the way the letter falls from James’ lips makes him weak in the knees, but he can’t keep pushing his discomfort away. 

“You can’t have it both ways,” Q finally blurts. “And I promised myself that I wouldn’t make you choose, and -” Q turns to look James in the face, his lips pressed into a thin line, “And I’m not, really. But I can’t…” Q trails off, not really knowing what kind of words he needs to use.

Silence descends through the sitting room. James leans against the door frame that leads into the kitchen, legs crossed, ancient track bottoms clinging precariously to his hips, tumbler of scotch in one hand and until about thirty seconds ago the predatory look that meant he was horny as fuck. And suddenly all Q could think about was the fact that 72 hours ago James was in bed with some stranger, and doing a very compelling job of convincing him that he was the apple of James’ eye.

It didn’t help that some of the lines he’d used had been  _ painfully _ familiar.

James is frowning at him now, and really, he’s an international spy, he should be better at intuiting why Q’s upset, should just read his bloody mind like he did with all his marks.

“Have what both ways? Q, what is this?” James pushes himself off the door frame with his hip and takes two steps into the sitting room.

“You can’t just come home and pretend you didn’t just fuck someone else! You can’t have both. I thought you could, but-” Q throws his hands up with a huff. “I’m being irrational, and I understand that.” Q lifts his chin and puts on his most stoic, sardonic expression. “So I guess this is it.” Q looks around, picks up a book off the coffee table, and takes three steps toward the door before he feels a hand on his shoulder and freezes.

“I don’t  _ want _ it both ways,” James says quietly. In spite of himself, Q turns around to study James’ face. He’s worried. That much is clear, but the reason for his concern is muddled in the middle of Q’s brain somewhere.

“No? What way do you want it then?”

“ _ Your _ way. Always your way.”

Q sighs. It’s what he wanted to hear, he knows it is, but listening to James feed his mark the same words they’d used in the bed not five meters down the hall made him doubt the sincerity. There’s one way to know for sure if James means the words coming out of his mouth.

“Call Mallory. Tell him.”

“Q, it’s eleven o’clock at night.”

“I don’t care. Call him. We can fill out the paperwork in the morning.”

James studies Q’s face for several long moments, then, to Q’s shock, plucks his phone off the charging base on the kitchen peninsula and thumbs it open.

His eyes never leave Q’s as he waits.

“Sorry about the time, sir,” James begins. “Yes.” A pause of several seconds and James glances at the ceiling, then shoves a hand into his pocket. “Well, it was at Q’s insistence, but he didn’t hold a gun to my head, if that’s what you mean. No. Well, yes, but-” James huffs. “I would like to request the forms for declaration of relationship. Yes, quite serious. I understand, sir. Thank you.”

James rings off, sets the phone down on top of the entertainment centre.

“Your way, Q. And Mallory respectfully requests that you not bother him in the middle of the night with things every intern, mail sorter, and receptionist within six streets of Six already knows.”


	21. On Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: 00Q on a mission!

Q’s chest heaved, lungs burned with exertion. A sweat drop trickled down his temple and dangled from his chin, then fell silently to the grey tile floor. He wasn’t cut out for this, and he was going to give Mallory hell for it when (if) he returned to Six. Bond was, theoretically, at the other end of the corridor, waiting for Q to give the signal he was in place.

He held his weapon (a .45 long Colt he’d modified into a semi-automatic) in both hands, pointed at the ceiling, three centimetres away from his nose. 

He pressed his back against the concrete block wall, cringing at the chill against his overheated skin. Across the corridor, a tattered poster proclaimed ‘The greatest discovery of any generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitude - William James’ in four-centimeter TNR italicised font. Q wondered how long this school building had been abandoned, it looked like something he would have found in the halls of his Secondary twenty years ago.

Q shook his head. He had to stay focused. He didn’t have time to wander backwards in time and revisit all the horrid days he spent at school. It was over now, anyway, and fuck Sebastian Coombs and his horde of lackeys.

“Q?” Bond’s voice in his ear made him start.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

“Good. Don’t touch your ear. I count four in the office and one patrolling the corridor. We’ve cleared the rest of the building. Nice shot back there, by the way.”

Q’s lips thinned in a grim smile. The shot had been necessary, but unpleasant. Targets didn’t spatter when they were hit. People, on the other hand, were unaccountably messy. 

“You should be grateful I’m a better shot than Moneypenny.”

“I think she’d argue the point. Actually, I’d bet on that.”

“You’d lose your shirt betting against me.”

“And you wouldn’t be complaining about that, would you?”

Heat bloomed across Q’s cheeks at the leer in Bond’s voice.

“Neither would you, I think.”

“If you lost your shirt? Never.”

Q clenched his teeth and said nothing else for several seconds.

“Got your breath back?” Bond asked eventually.

“Yes.”

“Alright. We go on three.”


	22. Captured!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: James captured by a villain, restraints, implied torture, canon typical action/violence

“It’s nothing personal,” she continues. “You were just in my way, really, and you have this terrible habit of throwing wrenches into my well-oiled machine.”

Bond says nothing. Can say nothing. He’s lying on a hospital gurney, zip ties holding his wrists and ankles to the railings, a belt across his neck and waist. He’s been trying to snap the tie on his left wrist for the past twenty minutes. The duct tape over his mouth itches, and there’s a bead of sweat on his temple that refuses to fall.

He has no one to blame for this but himself. He walked into her lair willingly, perhaps a bit blindly, looking back. Underestimated her. He really ought to quit doing that. He should have learned his lesson, but old habits die slowly.

“You kept popping up in the most unexpected places, James. I have to admit I was confused. How did you always know? Who was telling you where to go, connecting the dots of my vast digital empire for you? It’s obvious you’re not working alone in this. I would have caught up to you long before now if you’d been left to your own devices. So I began thinking.”

Bond narrows his eyes. They’d been so careful, so bloody careful, and Q had promised he’d cleaned up any trails they could have left. And Q could, too. Of that Bond had no doubt. So what was she prattering on about?

“I’m not bothering you, am I?” she asked suddenly, leaning over Bond. “It’s just you look bored. Maybe we should get your attention.” She looked up. “Bettine!”

Bond heard a door open somewhere behind him.

“What?” The voice was decidedly American, which Bond hadn’t been expecting. If he were honest, he hadn’t been expecting much of what had happened to him in the past four hours, so his surprise at Bettine’s voice is just the next in a long line of twists. At this point, it’s probably easier to just expect the opposite of any given assumption.

“Could you kindly fetch our other guest? I think it’s time for James to understand what he’s gotten himself into.”

“Sure thing, Liz. You want him -”   
“As-is, please. He should be docile enough at this point.”

Something cold and damp settles in the pit of Bond’s stomach, and he stares, unblinking, at the ceiling tiles.

It’s such a mundane thing, to have ceiling tiles. Institutional, almost comforting, in a way. It’s not the cracked plaster of an abandoned basement. Not the rotting tiles of an abandoned subway. Not damp and dismal and dark. The room is bright, the fluorescent lights driving all shadow away. The walls are painted a jaunty yellow, cheerful, completely at odds with the hospital gurney and Bond’s predicament.

Liz seems to sense his mind wandering, and begins speaking again.

“This used to be a hospital,” she says, straightening and moving off toward the foot of the gurney. “My hospital, in fact. I was devastated when they closed it down.”

Bond barely suppressed the sigh and eye roll. He knew as much, it was what had brought him here in the first place: old files, never digitised, left in the mouldering heap of a building.

Except it only  _ looked _ like a mouldering heap. The inside was well-kept: fresh paint, clean floors, and the minute Bond had slipped through the side door, he’d known he’d stepped into something he was not entirely prepared for.

But Q needed the information. Or Q had said he did. Now that Bond thinks about it, that conversation seemed a bit off, but he’d chalked it up to stress or little sleep. It’s beginning to look a bit more sinister than that.

The door opens again, and he can hear two sets of footsteps on the tile.

“Ah! Our very special guest!” 

Liz moves out of Bond’s range of vision, and there’s a click. The gurney begins tilting upwards until he’s laying at a forty-five-degree angle, the belt cutting into his neck, but not severely enough to choke him. Liz grins brightly at him as she turns the gurney around to face the door.

Despite the bite of leather in his neck, the chafe of the zip ties against his ankles, his stomach drops when he sees Q slumped on the floor.

The man can barely sit up, god knows how Bettine and a brunette he’d never seen before were able to drag him here. He’s not capable of walking, that much is clear, and he’s barely able to hold his head up. He’s fully clothed, so Bond can’t tell if he’s been hurt, but the way he’s curled in on himself indicates severe bruising if not broken ribs. Bond’s chest tightens, and he clenches his fists, pulling again at the zip ties as hard as he can. It’s useless.

“Good morning, Simon!” Liz calls, glee ringing in her voice. “How are you feeling?”

Q’s head lifts, loose on his neck, and he swivels it around to find the source of the voice. His eyes are black behind his glasses, and there’s an angry cut across his forehead.  When his eyes finally find Liz, they also find Bond, and Bond can see him swallow hard, trying to school his face into a poor substitute for the professional disdain he’d shown Bond since they’d met. He fails, naturally. Q isn’t used to this kind of treatment. Q shouldn’t be used to this kind of treatment. Q should not be subjected to this kind of treatment. That’s his job, dammit. Bond struggles in earnest, pulling against the zip ties on his wrists with as much force as he possesses.

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you,” Liz says, then slaps him across the face with the back of her hand. It stings, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in his chest.

It’s his fault, he knows it. Q is here, bruised and bloody, because Bond made a mistake. It’s what always landed people he cared about in situations beyond their control. Mistakes. Errors. Miscalculations. Whatever he calls them, the result is the same: loss of life, loss of hope.

Bond could let it eat at him. He could let himself drown in the past, give up completely, believe himself cursed.

But he doesn’t. That’s not an option, never has been. If he rolled over now, death was certain. But if he kept fighting, if he kept striving, kept  _ moving _ , someday he might just win. And that someday might be - 

_ SNAP _

The zip tie on his left hand gave out. It was a simple matter to then take hold of his right hand and pull with all his considerable strength and snap that one too. Then the belt at his neck. His fingers scrabbled blindly for the buckle as he heard Liz screeching at the top of her voice for Bettine and the other woman to subdue him again.

“ _ Get the tranq! _ ” he hears. “ _ Grab his hands!” _

But before they can regroup enough, Bond has slipped the belt off his neck. He still can’t sit up, not exactly, but he has three weapons now, instead of two, and his odds of actually making this work have gone up exponentially. He begins work on the belt around his stomach, but then feels a sharp stab in his neck. He flails with his right hand, pulling the needle out of his neck and smashing it on the tile. He prays that he reacted in time, before Liz could inject too much of the damn stuff.

Oblivion is only enjoyable if self-administered. Another lesson he learned the hard way.

There is a feral growl and suddenly long, blunt fingers pick at the duct tape over his mouth and Q’s face swims into view.

“Help you,” he murmurs through puffy, split lips. Bond nods.

A moment later, Q is wrenched away from his side by Bettine, and Bond hears the sickening thump as Q lands on the floor.

On the bright side, Q took the duct tape with him.

Bettine moves to smack Bond again, but when her hand makes contact, Bond uses weapon number four and bites down on the fleshy part of her hand as hard as he can. He tastes blood and Bettine screams, trying to pull her hand away, pummelling Bond’s face with her other fist. Bond doesn’t let go until one of her punches lands on his nose with a sickening crunch, and blood pours from his nostrils.

Another broken nose. Bloody typical.

The belt around his stomach gives, and he can sit up, giving his ankles, and the zip ties there, some leverage.

He snaps them handily with the improved angle.

And he’s up on his feet, now, and more dangerous for it, even if he can start to feel some mild effects of the tranquillizer flooding his brain.

He hopes that’s why Q is so dazed, but he’s afraid it’s worse than that.

Bond lets fly a silent prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in that the one thing he needs is still in his pocket.

He swipes at the brunette’s feet as she barrels towards him, shouting her rage at his insolence, and she goes down like a tonne of bricks, smacking her head against the tile, and she doesn’t get back up.

He grins as his fingers close over the tiny device sewn into the lining of his trouser pocket: latest thing from Q-branch. A radio.

Now all he has to do is get Q and get out. Six will take care of the rest.

He scoops Q up, trying at first to merely support him, but quickly realising that there was no way he could walk any distance. In a fit of desperation, Bond lifts him in a bridal carry and nearly  damages his head on the way out the door, Liz still screaming at the top of her lungs, trying to convince a belligerent Bettine that she should ‘forget about your fucking hand, he’s  _ escaping _ !’

Bond rolls his eyes and starts running. If he’s lucky, he’ll miss the guards.


	23. Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: 00Q on the road for hours, banter, fluff  
> Warning: May, in fact, induce cavities.

The temperature gauge in the dashboard read 101 degrees. Q attempted to convert that into something sensible, and came up with 39, which couldn’t possibly be correct, but must be. Every time they got out of the car (for food or fuel or what have you) it felt like stepping out onto the surface of the sun, but with less breathable air.

And it wasn’t just heat. It was humidity and direct sunlight and every terrible thing that could possibly happen to weather all rolled into one excruciating day, and Q swore if it hit 40, he’d stage an outright revolt.

“How do people  _ live _ here?” Q groused, tugging at his collar. He’d even brought short sleeves, James had warned him about the temperature, but he’d been certain it was an exaggeration. No. Nope, no exaggeration at all, it really was hot as hell in this godforsaken place. To make matters worse, Q hadn’t seen any sign of civilisation for at least an hour. 

“They probably ask the same about London,” James said, an enigmatic grin on his face. “The rain,” he clarified when he noticed Q’s bafflement.

Q huffed in irritation and wriggled in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable spot.

They’d been in the car for hours. Far more hours than Q had been prepared for. 

“How much farther until we reach Austin?”

“About 400 kilometres.”

“Ugh, why is everything in America so far apart?”

“This  _ was _ your idea.”

“You could have told me I was being irrational.”

“Because that always ends well.”

“Well, you could have warned me.”

“And miss driving through the countryside with your charming commentary?”

“What? I was genuinely astonished at the number of cows we’ve seen. Far more cows than people. Is that how it works here, sort of like the sheep in New Zealand?”

James’ bark of laughter only sent Q into a glower.

“Austin will surprise you, I think,” James said.

“I hope it’s not the same kind of surprise we had at that rest stop.”

James frowned.

“I should have punched him.”

“It wouldn’t have done any good.” Q reached over to adjust the air vent so it blew against his face. “Besides, I think you frightened him enough.”

“Would have made me feel better,” James mumbled.

“You can protect me from the next uneducated redneck, then,” Q soothed, and laid his hand gently on James’ arm. James flashed a grin.

“Promise?”

“Only if they start it.”

The pair shared a grin, and the car lapsed into silence, broken only by the whoosh of air through the vents and the semis grumbling as they passed. Q’s nose was buried in his phone, and James was content to watch the road, expertly weaving through what little traffic there was for dramatic effect.

“Shit,” Q murmured eventually.

“Problem?”

“My phone has no signal. How can my phone have no signal?”

James shrugged. That was Q’s area of expertise, and since James didn’t have to care about the particulars, he doesn’t. Q slapped his phone against his thigh with a click of his tongue and a frustrated sigh.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Need the loo?”

“Honestly, Q!”

“It’s a valid inquiry.”

“Usually it’s the driver who asks.”

“I don’t have my international license. Besides, I’ve no idea how you manage to drive down the other side of the road.”

“One of my many talents.”

Q snorted, and settled back in his seat, watching the grass and trees and cows roll by. 

“It is beautiful,” he admitted. “Even if it is hot as blazes.”

“Wait til you see Felix’s place.” James’ voice was brimming with excitement. “You won’t believe it. They tell you everything's bigger in Texas, but it’s impossible to describe the actual scale. It’s not just distances. Well, you saw that petrol station. Felix’s house is…” James shook his head. “You’ll just have to see it. I don’t even know how much property he owns. And the  _ horses _ . Q, the horses. We’ll have to go riding.”

Q’s eyes went wide, and he looked over at James with a scandalised expression.

“I didn’t know you could do that?” he said, and he didn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but the thought of James on a horse just didn’t quite gel.

“Went out all the time as a kid,” James said. “Kinkaide and I would ride all over those hills…” his voice trailed off, lost to memory or melancholy.

Q bit his lip, considering. He had no love for the animals, no experience, no desire. But the wistful glaze in James’ eyes and his eagerness to go swayed him.

“Alright,” Q relented. “But you’ll have to teach me.”

Q thought that James’ face had never lit up so brightly.

“My pleasure.”


	24. 3 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: nightmares, angst

James jerked awake, sweat beading on his forehead, breath coming in gasps. He tried to shake the last vestiges of the dream out of his mind: the water, the chains, the cruel laughter ringing in his ears. He glanced down at the still form beside him; Q, pretending to be asleep. To be fair, he was quite good at pretending, and James almost allowed it to pass.

“Go back to sleep,” he said and sat up, scrubbing his face.

Q rolled over, and a gentle touch settled on the small of James’ back.

“I’m fine.” James swung his feet out of bed, the chill of the floor grounding him.

Wash his face, maybe a scotch, by that time Q will have drifted off again and he could curl up behind him, his nose in Q’s hair, and chase the demons away with the warmth of the body pressed against him.

“You were screaming this time,” Q said quietly, unsure.

James grunted and moved to stand.

“You said my name.”

That stopped him cold.

The image came flooding back: Q chained to a chair, James behind glass, the room slowly filling with murky brackish water. James, smashing his fist against the glass, calling to Q. Faceless laughter, and his own broken acquiescence. To save Q. To save Nathaniel. 

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

James pushed himself upright and lumbered into the ensuite, squinting as he flipped on the lights. The nightmares had been steadily growing worse, prising at weaknesses, opening cracks, and James had to face the facts: Q was a weakness that he couldn’t afford, not only for himself but for Q. The closer they were, the more danger Q faced. And James couldn’t rationalise it anymore.

He splashed cold water on his face then scrubbed it with a towel and peered at his reflection. The bags under his eyes bulged, the lines around his mouth deeper than he remembered.

He saw Q approach in the mirror, and James allowed it, Q’s arms coming around his waist, his head leaning against his back so that his hair tickled against the back of James’ neck.

“Can you tell me?” Q murmured. Q’s attempts were always so tentative, so wary, as though James would shatter if the questions were posed too forcefully.

“No.” It wasn’t Q’s burden to carry, and there was no point in worrying him more than he already did.

Q sighed, and his breath ghosted across James’ shoulder. “I just want to help you,” he said.

“I know.”


	25. The Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Illness, HEAVY ANGST, not happy ending, no light at the end of the tunnel here

It is a large book, with a plain black cover and a gilt design around the edge. The corners are well-worn, and the hinge of the spine is beginning to fray. It is a book that has been lifted down from the high shelf, where it rests against a copy of  _ Beowulf _ and  _ Mary Poppins _ and an entire year’s worth of back issues of  _ The Field,  _ many times.

He lifts it down now, running fingers that look too old to be his over the worn leather before carefully opening the cover.

_ 2005 _

Photograph - Young, mop-haired man grinning for the camera, holding a diploma in one hand and a cap in the other. He’s swimming in the gown, hood askew. He’s standing under a tree, it’s a brilliantly sunny day, and in the middle distance there is a group of three or four other people milling about, all in caps and gowns.

_ 2006 _

Photograph - Young, mop-haired man, now in a smart jacket and tie. Whoever took the photo surprised him, and his features are caught in that moment where they morph from surprise to frustration at being caught unawares. The background is an unremarkable off-white hallway with an equally nondescript door at the end. 

Newspaper Clipping - ‘Explosion in Embassy’

Newspaper Clipping - ‘Terrorist Financing Dismantled’

_ 2007 _

Newspaper Clipping - ‘Bolivian Drought Eased’

Newspaper Clipping - ‘Bolivian General Posthumously Accused of War Crimes’

Photograph - Mop-haired young man, in white t-shirt and denims, sitting on a sofa with his feet propped on the coffee table, knees up, laptop balanced on his legs. He’s staring intently at the screen and frowning. There’s a scribbled note underneath, ‘Workaholic.’

 

_ 2012 _

Newspaper Clipping - ‘Hearings Scheduled to Discontinue Controversial Security Program’

Newspaper Clipping - ‘Obituary: James Bond’

Newspaper Clipping - ‘Explosion at MI6’

Newspaper Clipping - ’Obituary: Olivia Mansfield’

Photograph - Two shorthair cats, one tortoiseshell, one tuxedo, sit on a table overflowing with dismantled computers and various components. Written underneath in an engineer’s hand, ‘Chantilly and Vladimir’

 

_ 2015 _

Photograph - Silhouette of a man standing in front of a bay window. Light gleams on his shoulders. He is naked to the waist, hands in the pockets of his trousers. 

Photograph - Profile of a blond man in sunglasses, seated in the driver’s side of a convertible with the top down. There is a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. The background is an indecipherable blur.

Photograph - The blond man scowling with Chantilly perched on one shoulder and Vladimir headbutting his chin.

Photograph - The blond man and the mop-haired man together, in intense discussion about something on the table in front of them, but since the table is so cluttered, it’s impossible to discern what it is from the photo.

Newspaper clipping - ‘Building Collapse in Mexico’

Newspaper clipping - ‘Explosion in Tunisian Desert’

Newspaper clipping - ‘Helicopter Crash on Vauxhall Bridge’

 

_ 2018  _

Photograph - Mop-haired man, but not so mop-haired anymore, holding up an ink pen and grinning.

Photograph - Mop-haired man and blond man both in white tuxedos standing under a pergola, hands clasped, smiles as wide as the horizon on their faces.

Photograph - A 1965 Aston Martin DB5, silver, with ‘Just Married’ written across the rear window in washable paint and empty tins tied to the bumper.

Photograph - Blond man levered up on one elbow, flipping off the camera. He is lying on a blanket on white sand, and sand also clings to his legs and feet. His skin is sunkissed, just this side of pink, and he has water droplets clinging to his chest, cheeks and fringe.

Newspaper clipping - ‘Marriage Announcements’

Newspaper clipping - ‘Four Arrested - Suspected Drug Trafficking in Majorca’

  
  


_ 2023   _

Photograph - Blond man disdainfully holding a certificate, arms crossed. There is a wrought-iron bench next to him, and a small area of grass behind. The sky in the upper-left corner of the photo is grey, the pavement is dry.

Photograph - Small house surrounded by fruit trees with an overgrown garden in front, built of fieldstone. The blond man stands in front, pulling on a fading red hollyhock blossom.

Newspaper clipping - ‘New Footpath Gate Too Noisy’

Newspaper clipping - ‘Rotten Tree Falls in Garden’

  
  


_ 2053 _

Photograph - Pair of elderly men, the blond and mop-hair, sitting on a rocking lawn bench - both in cardigans and beanie hats despite the sunshine. An ancient dog lies in a puddle of sunlight at their feet.

Photograph - Mop-hair, who’s gone from dark brunet to silver-white, standing at the sink in the kitchen in his house slippers and dressing gown -

 

James tosses the book to the floor and flings himself back into the armchair with as much force as is left in his 83-year-old body. He can’t make sense of the photos. They should mean something, he’s sure of it, it’s just on the tip of his tongue, but before he can pull it out, it slips away again, and he’s left with this empty space where the story ought to be.

Before he can work himself up into a proper strop, however, the door opens and a man peeks his head around the door and smiles. James smiles back, because it’s polite, and the man is attractive and very fit for his age. He has tousled silver-white hair that falls heavily over his forehead and dark frame glasses and he looks familiar, but James can’t place him.

“Hello, James,” he says, and the way he says it James knows he’s supposed to know who this is, but he can’t quite make the leap.

“Hello.” James smiles again, it seems prudent. He’s waiting for someone, someone is supposed to meet him here, maybe it’s this man. He rather hopes it is.

The man’s eyes land on the book on the floor and his face falls for just a moment, and almost instantly the smile is back in place.

“Should we take a stroll in the garden today?”

“I’d like that” James says, “but I’m waiting for my husband.” The minute the sentence leaves his mouth he knows it’s true, just a he’s certain that this man, handsome as he is, is a stranger. Why have they let a stranger in his room?

“I’m sure he’d wait. It doesn’t take that long.”

James peers suspiciously at this man who seems to want to slot into his memory, but resists.

“Are you sure? Who are you working for?”

The man looks like the question hurts him in a way James doesn’t understand.

“I’m with Six,” he says, and James relaxes. It’s the right answer. “And yes, I’m sure he’d wait for you. For as long as it takes.”

James nods. A walk around the garden does sound nice. Check on the hollyhocks, see how the tomatoes are coming along. He slips into his shoes and the man offers his arm.

“He’ll be jealous,” James says as he takes the offered elbow.

“Who will?”

“My husband. Me walking around with a handsome bloke like you.”

His words make the man blush, his cheeks turning dusky pink.

“I think it’ll be alright.”

“Yes,” James says, frowning at the man. “Yes, I think it will.”

If he sees a tear roll down the man’s cheek as the pass out of the three-season porch and into the garden beyond, James says nothing. Whatever grief it belongs to doesn’t involve him.


	26. Risk Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: relationship negotiation, angst

“James, you can’t keep ignoring me.”

“Oh? Why’s that, I thought it was going so well.”

“Don’t,” Q said, his voice creaking over the vowel as he tried to hold back the emotion. It wouldn’t do to wander around MI6 with red-rimmed eyes. Unprofessional. “Don’t do this. If you don’t want to see me again, fine, but just tell me so I can get on with it.”

“And what made you think that?”

James turned, finally, to face him, and Q pursed his lips. He knew it made him look petulant, but it was the only way he could keep any emotion at all off his face.

“Why wouldn’t I, when you just drop off the face of the earth? No explanation, just… poof. No mission that I can find, so what did I do?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s not an answer, James!”

James stalked over, and despite the fact that they were the same height, Q felt small, suddenly, in his presence. His expression was thunderous, as though Q had said something utterly insulting.

“You want to know what’s wrong?” James demanded, and suddenly Q wasn’t so sure he did, but nodded anyway. 

James’ voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

“What’s wrong is that I can’t get you out of my head. What’s wrong is that every time I close my eyes, I see yours. What’s wrong,  _ Q _ , is that despite my best efforts you’ve managed to  _ stick _ . And if I don’t stay away, I won’t ever let you go.”

Q stood rooted to the spot, his breath caught in his throat, his hands clasping at his cuffs to keep them from shaking.

“Why-” Q coughed, “why do you want to? Let me go?”

“Because everyone close to me dies, Q. Everyone.”   
“Then why did you-”

“To get it out of my system. It’s cruel, but it’s true. One good shag and I’d be on my way. But that’s not how it worked. You… you stuck. I don’t know how else to say it. And you can’t stick because then there’s a time limit. Days, maybe weeks, I don’t know. But however long it is, it won’t be enough, and I’d rather know you’re alive than take advantage of whatever time we’ve got left.”

Q’s eyebrows dipped together for a moment as he processed James’ words, parsing out the meaning underneath.

“Can I,” he said at last, “maybe make that choice myself?”

“Did you not hear me? Or are you deliberately not understanding what I’m telling you?”

“What I heard,” Q said carefully, slowly, staring into James’ eyes, “is that you care. About me, specifically.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “And that you’re not quite sure what to do about it, and that you might be terrified of it, and for good reason.” Q stepped into James’ personal space. “And what I said,” he placed his hand on James’ chest, and James did not step away, “was that I’d like a say in my own future. I’m an adult, I can make my own choices. And I choose,” Q paused and slid his hand up and around James’ neck, “risk.”

Q leant in, capturing James’ lips in a chaste, if heated, kiss.

James pulled away, pushing Q back so hard he stumbled.

“I can’t let you do that,” he said, then turned on his heel and strode away. Q was left standing, alone and shaking, in the middle of the empty corridor, and the tears finally spilt down his cheeks.


	27. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: 00Q Domestic, fluff

Q stood at the sink, elbow-deep in sudsy water, scrubbing away at what might have been a baking dish underneath the blackened mess.

He’d wanted to surprise him. He’d wanted to do something nice. He’d planned ahead, gone to the shops, watched six different tutorials on the techniques required - and promptly forgot the roast was in the oven until it was too late.

Q swore rather creatively at the baking dish as he scrubbed.

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” James said as he came into the kitchen with the takeaway curry.

“Bad enough. At least I couldn’t burn the pudding, I guess.”

“Ice cream is virtually impossible to burn, yes,” James agreed, setting the containers on the breakfast bar next to the good plates Q had set out. 

It was supposed to have been romantic, Q thought as he glowered at the baking dish that refused to relinquish its carbonised coating. It was supposed to have been compliments and kisses and a way for James to unwind (that would end in a fantastic shag, most likely) and he’d ruined it by getting too involved in that tie pin HD camera.

He’d just about gotten the worst of the mess scrubbed out of one corner of the pan when James stepped up behind him and put his hands on Q’s forearms.

“Let it soak, darling, the curry’s getting cold.”

“I’m sorry,” Q said as he set the dish down in the soapy water and reached for a towel to dry his hands.

“What for?”

“Mostly for being an absolute menace in the kitchen, but also for making you get dinner on your first night back and being difficult to live with when I’m frustrated with myself.” Q turned around in James’ arms to face him.

“Well,” James chuckled, “that’s a rather thorough assessment. But completely unnecessary.” James’ smile was soft and warm, melting his eyes into that familiar squint that only seemed to ever apply to Q. “You could hand me a sandwich and a beer when I came through the door and I’d be just as pleased. Or, you know, forgo the food altogether and just meet me at the door naked.”

“You’re incorrigible.” 

“I also missed you. Quite a lot, if I’m honest.”

“You’re being awfully honest tonight. What’s the occasion?”

“Do I need one?”

Q thought about that for a moment.

“No,” he said finally. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

James grinned and pulled Q in for a long, lazy kiss.

When they finally pulled away, James ushered Q to the breakfast bar and pulled out a chair. Q rolled his eyes, but took the seat anyway.

“For dinner,” James began in a terrible French accent that sent Q into a shower of giggles, “we have an excellent shrimp curry and,” he picked up the bottle of wine, “half a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, a recent vintage, but quite flavorful…”

Q doubled over with laughter and held up a hand.

“Stop, stop. Okay I get it. Just… god that’s awful! Just please… oh my god… please stop, you sound like a Monty Python sketch!”

James grinned, poured the wine, and Q served.


	28. Artistic License

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: artist!Q, fluff

James felt like he’d been sitting there for weeks, but it had probably only been about twenty minutes. He never realised how tiring sitting perfectly still could be. Granted, he couldn’t much complain about the view: Q sketching furiously, his tongue poking out between his lips as he furrowed his brow in concentration. Problem was, he could only see Q out of the corner of his eye and as he tracked Q’s progress, he kept turning his head.

“Don’t move!” Q admonished for the seventeenth time.

“Sorry, sorry,” James said as he struggled to keep the amusement off his face.

“I want to get this just right. Your face is a nightmare to draw, you know.”

“Just one more way I’m frustrating?”

“Mmm.” Q worked for a few minutes more, sighed, and set his charcoal down.

“Well, I don’t think I can do any more damage. Would you like to see?”

“Obviously.” James twisted his neck, cracking it with a satisfying pop, then lifted his arms over his head to stretch. 

He stood and meandered over to where Q sat on the sofa, frowning at the paper in his hands. James peered over his shoulder.

His eyes widened at what was there on the paper: it was almost like looking at a photograph, but the lens had somehow captured more than an image. He didn’t quite know how to explain it, either, how he could see Q’s fondness (or another, more fervent emotion that they’d studiously avoided), but without idealisation. He hadn’t smoothed the wrinkles or omitted the scars, hadn’t put an expression on his face that wasn’t there. 

“Amazing.”

Q grinned. “Do you really think so?”


	29. Water Soluble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Bond trapped in a slowly-filling tank of water, AU where M doesn't die, preslash

“Q!” M’s voice was sharp, and Q could picture her expression, all pursed lips and shrewd eyes. “We’re running low on time, here. Either pull yourself together or consider yourself unemployed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Q murmured as his fingers flew over the keyboard, countering each new defence as he slowly dismantled the firewalls.

M wasn’t exaggerating. Q’s performance was literally tied to Bond’s life: every minute Q worked, another centimetre of water was added to the tank. There was a very helpful monitor in the corner of the room that showed the slow rise of water, and it was currently eddying around Bond’s chest. He had maybe ten minutes left to work, if he was lucky.

He knew it was some kind of trap. Nothing this over-complicated was ever just a straightforward kill attempt. It was personal, tailored to Bond’s fears and Q’s insecurities. 

Q paused for a moment to wipe his sleeve across his forehead and take a sip of tea. It was lukewarm and over-steeped, but he found he didn’t much care at this point. It was less hassle than demanding medical hook up a caffeine IV.

The water slowly crept up Bond’s chest, and Q found yet another layer of encryption and swore. It crested his shoulders and Q thought he might have finally done it, when another set of metaphorical doors slammed in his face. It was just beginning to lap at the bottoms of his ears when Q finally  _ finally _ let out a shout of triumph as the system opened up and he was able to deactivate the water pumps and drain the tank.

Bond slumped in the tank, sliding down the wall to sit at the bottom, and Q sat back in his chair and simply breathed for a moment.

“Well done, Quartermaster,” M murmured over the comm, and even though it was scant praise and spoken in a begrudging tone, Q took it for what it was: high praise indeed.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“No, ma’am.”

Q watched Bond for a few minutes more as he came back to himself and shook off the water like a dog climbing out of a pond. Q would never tell a soul, but he’d seen the terror in Bond’s eyes as the water lapped at the bottom of his nose at the very last, and Q wished he could have been faster, spared the agent that particular brand of torture.

Whoever was behind this, they’d done some serious digging in places they didn’t belong, and Q was determined to find out. All it took was one careless spelunking trip in the archives, and Q would have their ID, birth certificate, and grandmother’s maiden name.

Bond reached out a hand to open the tank, and clenched a fist before pulling at the panel until it released. One more thing Q would never reveal, and one more thing to avenge, and Q was nothing if not vengeful. Particularly when his agents were threatened and, though he’d never reveal this either, particularly that agent.

Q took several more minutes to stand and stretch before wriggling his fingers over his keyboard.

“Alright. Time to find out who’s been a very  _ very _ naughty monkey.”


	30. Viva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains: This is mostly crack, plus fluff

“Oh, no!” Q said, his voice dripping mockery. “Anything but that!”

James growled and plucked a pillow from against the headboard, bringing it swinging into Q’s stomach with perhaps a bit more force than he’d intended, and Q grunted with the impact.

“What? Why can’t we? It’s not like anything is holding us here, and god knows we’ve both got enough holiday saved up.”

“My sister would never forgive me,” Q said, shoving the pillow under his chest and flopping down on the bed. 

James leant over and ran his nose over Q’s shoulder.

“So, she can come, too. I’ll furnish the room and everything.”

“And Brad and the kids, too?”

“Whatever you want.”

“You’re just saying that.”   
“No.” James sat up and looked Q squarely in the face. “No, I mean it. If your sister and her family need to be there, then we’ll make that happen.”

Q studied James’ face intently for several seconds.

“Oh my god, you mean it.”

“Of course I mean it.”

“Las Vegas.” Q’s mouth twitched, and he held the smirk in check.

“Sin City, darling. I thought it fitting.”

Q pitched his voice into a high falsetto. “As long as you don’t go gambling away our retirement!”

They both fell into laughter, James pulling Q onto him until Q straddled his hips. Q bent down and kissed James thoroughly, then laid his head on James’ shoulder.

“We’re really going to do this.”

“Yes, we really are.”

Q pulled James’ left hand up to his face, lacing his own fingers between James’, the complimentary (but not matching, that would be crass) white-gold bands sliding against each other and glinting in the lamplight.

“Viva Las Vegas,” Q murmured, and promptly burst into giggles.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my tumblr [here](http://timetospy.tumblr.com).


End file.
